


Night Vision

by Rozarka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blindfolds, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-12
Updated: 2006-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-11 04:50:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rozarka/pseuds/Rozarka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A blindfold and a late night seduction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Vision

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Inell's challenge to write fanart-inspired fic. My inspiration came from a lovely picture of a [blindfolded Hermione](http://users.livejournal.com/_odella_/28717.html) by Odella.

She's sitting reading in her favourite chair by the fireplace, tiredly rubbing her temples and forehead with the heels of her hands, when the band of silk slides before her gritty eyes.

"If you von't close your eyes any other vay--" The silk tightens to a firm fit, secured by a knot at the back of her head.

He must have used a silencing charm to come up behind her without a sound. It's startling and confusing, but it doesn't frighten her. His voice is loving, his scent is around her and what it signals to her, always, is safety and joy. After the first second's shock she smiles, savouring this new thing, this thrill of uncertainty, and his thumbs rub her temples for some seconds before one drifts down her neck, the other slides across her lips. She tastes it with the tip of her tongue: salty, cedarwood, warm, Viktor.

"You told me you vere coming to bed half an hour ago." He is stern, just a little.

"I just need to finish revising this chapter," Hermione explains, feeling a prick of guilt. She had indeed sworn she'd be in bed well before midnight. "I thought you were asleep by now; I'm sorry if I kept you awake."

"Is not my sleep I vorry about. You try too hard," he says. "You already know vot you need to know, Her-my-nee; now vot you need is to relax, sleep and be rested for morning."

It's true, she knows, even though every instinct she has tells her to stay up reading long past midnight before her exam the next day, which will kick off her final round of examinations at Hogwarts. Over this first school year after the war, she's been taking her seventh-year subjects as a long-distance student, by arrangement with Minerva McGonagall. The Arithmancy exam is the first one up, and deep down she knows that the tight knots of panic in her shoulders and neck are irrational, that she is as well prepared as anyone could be expected to be. God knows it's been a far quieter school year than any she has had previously. But it's hard to shake off the performance anxiety, the burning need to prove herself. 

Strange as it is, the silky blackness binding her eyelids offers respite, as do his hands curving over her shoulders, spanning across them from clavicles to shoulder blades; his fingers dig deeply, carefully into the tense muscles both back and front, making her whimper and hang her head to invite more of the same. 

"Vy you are nervous? You are smartest person I know. You haff vorked very hard. Everything vill be okay."

"I don't know. This year has been so ... bloody _easy_ ," she says on a fretful rush of breath. "And I'm scared that maybe I've let myself off the hook too often because it's felt like I had all the time in the world."

"You haff not let yourself off hook." Viktor's voice is amused; Viktor's hands are wonderful, strong thumbs rubbing down the indentations along her spine on each side. Her muscles tingle in small shocks of delight. "You haff taken time to laugh, to breathe, to make love. It makes you better at everything you do. Tomorrow, you vill Apparate to Hogsmeade and take refreshing valk to castle and do best exam you haff ever had."

"This is some ancient Bulgarian wisdom?"

"No," he murmurs, smoothing outwards from her spine with firm pressure of his splayed, large hands. "Is visdom I haff learnt from you. Had my best Quidditch season ever, because of laughing and making love vith you."

Tears press against her eyelids suddenly, stopped by the silk, but they thicken her voice. She closes the book quietly. "I love you, know that?"

He replies, in his sweet, sardonic way: "I had no idea at all." There's a caress of fingertips over her cheek, before the weight of the book is lifted off her lap. Then his fingers find her own, graze them softly, stroking her palm open and closing lightly around it. "Let me take you for valk."

She stands up, disoriented, as he tugs on her hand. "Where--"

"Shh. Not vorry. You think I vill let you fall?"

She shakes her head.

"Then come," he whispers.

Her heart beats faster. She knows where he is from the sound of his voice, but the feel of his hand is all the connection she has. She touches the blindfold uncertainly.

"Her-my-nee."

And it's there, so easy, a flood of trust. She steps into the tingling air between them. Further, further. Before she can second-guess and guard herself, he's there, his solidity and warmth. His chest is bare, crisp whorls of hair against her hot cheek; all he wears is boxer shorts -- she's only wearing a camisole and a pair of shorts, too, in the balmy night, and the feeling of his bare skin against hers is like licking fire and cooling water, all at once.

Her arms are around his waist, wrapped tight. "Hold me."

"All night," he promises, "but first, ve do this."

She walks with him, her bare feet tentative. She wouldn't have guessed that it would be so hard to recognize her own home in total blackness. They cross the living-room, she thinks. There's a door sliding open, a rush of mild night air and she knows they're at the French windows to the patio, looking over the Black Sea.

"Come."

She comes. Shivering a little now, wondering. He leads her out on the patio; she feels the cool slate tiles under her feet, smells honeysuckle and jasmine and the Casablanca and regale lilies in their pots in the corner, and the mild sweet-salt of the brackish ocean. And then he lets go of her hand.

"Take off your top." It's request rather than command. He wouldn't boss her around. That's rather _her_ flaw, the bossing around. But his gentleness is so much more compelling than a flat-out order, because it makes her gentle in turn, makes her _want_ to do what he says.

It makes her need to, burn to do so, now, even though she knows the moon is bright, near to full, and there are houses on either side of their own. But they are out of sight here, aren't they? More or less; she can't remember. They're some distance away, at least.

Hermione doesn't care; maybe it even adds to her eagerness. Quickly, she does as he said. Slips the camisole over her head and lets it fall by her feet, and waits, her breasts tightening with the imagined weight of his gaze and the light sea breeze.

She hears the fall of his bare feet and tilts her head up, searching blindly, and in an instant his mouth descends upon her own, soft and hot, their lips barely touching, tongues gliding over and around with delicate care, like mating serpents. The tips of her breasts brush against the hairs on his chest and she whimpers at the feather-light stimulation. Her legs feel weak, pleasure thrumming at the base of her stomach. Seven months of marriage and she still gets amazed again and again over the heat they generate together. 

The moment she takes a step closer, he is gone.

"Vot do you vant to do next?" He is short of breath, his voice uneven.

She raises her head quickly, a blush flooding her face. It should be pretty obvious what she wants. "I want to ..." She turns her face in what she believes is the direction of the door, uncertainly, thinking of the big bed upstairs.

He chuckles. "Bed?"

"No," she says, taking a breath of determination, "not yet. I want to ... drive you crazy."

There is silence, and then the sound of a chair being dragged out from the patio table, and of him sitting down. "You may," he offers quietly, "drive me crazy."

She swallows, and chews on her bottom lip for a few seconds. She's hardly the stuff that strip-tease dancers are made of. She's too sensible, too aware of the potential comedy of blatant sexual come-ons, too aware of her every little physical shortcoming. Yet she knows that Viktor worships her breasts and is turned on by her hips and bum and thighs, so why worry?

She turns her back to him, hitches her thumbs under the waist of her shorts and looks at him over her shoulder, except of course she sees nothing. He sees everything. She arches her back to thrust out her behind as she tugs the shorts and her knickers down and shimmies out of them.

"You are so beautiful. Sexy." His voice is hoarse, all of a sudden. "Your arse is prettiest, sexiest in the vorld."

Hermione smiles to herself. Viktor's grasp of the naughtier parts of the English lexicon has been revealed over the past year, and to be honest, it turns her on when he says those words with such loving awe in his rough voice and accent.

"And vicked smile you haff, goes very vell vith a vicked bum like yours," adds Viktor, and she can tell that he is smiling rather wickedly too.

She turns to face him, more callow now that she has used up the only strip-tease move in her repertoire. Heck, she is stripped bare as can be, and when she reflects on how she must look, standing in their garden naked in offering with only the silk to cover her eyes, her stomach twists with want and she feels a rush of slick heat between her legs. She deliberates for a moment, and asks, "Can I have the cushions from the chairs?"

"Ven you ask so nicely--" He gets up and gathers the cushions, drops them to the ground behind her. Sounds of rustling as he pushes them together, and then a touch at her elbow. "There is room for you to sit down. Lie down. Votever you vish."

"What do _you_ wish?" she asks quietly, and she can hear him swallow, hesitate.

"Sit down," he tells her softly. "Touch your breasts and open your legs, so I can see how vet you are."

He guides her down on the cushions, then steps back again. He doesn't take the chair, that she can hear. She doesn't know where he is, how close, but she draws up her knees, keeps them well apart as she arches her back and cups her palms over her breasts. Viktor's intake of breath is sudden and harsh -- he is not that far away at all. Her head feels heavy and she lets it fall back on her shoulders, moaning as she teases her nipples with soft brushes of her palms at first, then closes her fingers over them and pinches and pulls.

When it's only her and she brings herself off she is silent and direct and efficient, but the moans and sighs and writhing she introduces for Viktor's benefit aren't merely an act; she does it to turn him on, and knowing it turns him on makes her weak and liquid with the decadence of it, the blatant titillation. 

"Feels good, does it?" he asks her. 

"Mm-hmm..."

"Going to touch you," he forewarns her softly, and Hermione nods, face burning with arousal and anticipation, and then she feels his hands on her knees, gliding down her inner thighs, nudging them further apart, as wide as they will go. When the calloused palms leave her, just an inch from where she aches to be touched, she groans out, her hands falling to her sides and grasping at the cushions, her nails scratching over hard cool slate.

"Shh," he soothes her. "I just vant to look at you properly."

"It feels so strange," she whispers in a rush, "you looking at me there when I can't even see your face."

"Mmm, I can imagine," he murmurs, a hint of a smile in his tone.

"Can the neighbours see us?" she asks, not quite certain which answer she really wants from him, and maybe Viktor can tell that too, because his tone is still teasing.

"Only if they really, really vant to." He pauses, and asks more seriously, in genuine curiosity, "Do you vant someone to be vatching?"

"Maybe," she whispers shyly. It's just a fantasy, and she can say what she likes, no harm.

"Then maybe, someone is vatching, thinking how pretty you are vith your blindfold and your legs spread for me, how lucky I am to be the man who is going to make you come." He presses a kiss to her knee, and in the next instant she cries out softly as there's a flutter of a touch over her bared clit, so light, so brief, like from an insect collecting nectar in a night-blooming flower. "Sveetheart. You are so vet, open, I could drink you like honey."

She shivers at the ideas churning in her mind, strains her thighs wider open and stretches them out on the stones, a shock of cold against her legs, but that arouses her, too, and she tilts her hips up to him wantonly. "Please," she whispers, dreamy and strained like in a fever. The rhythmical surge of waves washing in is loud in her ears and she's not sure if it's the ever-present rush of the sea she hears or her own blood pumping faster and faster through her heart. 

There are his hands on her thighs again, firm, yet so gentle, and next just the warning of his breath and the brush of his hair along her skin before she feels his tongue between her legs, warm and soft and amazing. He knows her ... God, he knows so well. Making love with Viktor has been wonderful right from the start, but familiarity has bred intimate knowledge and applying that knowledge has been a revelation. She falls back and there are cushions to catch her, and dense blackness above her bound eyelids like a sky of silk covering the sky. Viktor places her thighs over his shoulders before his hands skim up her waist, over her ribcage, his thumbs finding her achingly taut nipples and brushing them lazily, bands of fire tightening between her breasts and her clit, and a hollow need clenching low in her womb.

He presses with the flat of his tongue over her clit and then draws her whole clit into his mouth, suckling, and it feels like the intense sensation he milks out of her is something solid, flowing golden and viscous from her nerves to his tongue. She whimpers and twines her fingers into his thick hair, as gentle as he is, as gentle as only he's ever taught her how to be. 

"Yeah Viktor, oh God Viktor so good, please don't ever stop--" 

She's quivering, tensing, about to cry out and lose it, when Viktor pulls back, his thumb taking the place of his tongue as she moans in protest at the loss, soothing her with a touch that's a bit too firm to coax her over the brink. She hears a rustle of cloth -- his boxers pushed down, she thinks, and then he moves over her, his thumb still firmly in place, his free arm slipping under her leg, raising her knee to her shoulder as he aligns his cock with her entrance and presses inside her smoothly. He strokes his thumb, gentle now, up the length of her clit, slick with his saliva and her arousal ... so familiar, so precise, just _so_ , and after a few seconds of it she clutches around him and tenses, climaxing around his hard length inside her, shuddering out, "Oh God, God, God."

He waits until she's lying limp and spent, and then he raises his hand and pulls the blindfold off her as he makes the first, powerful thrust. She blinks rapidly, is drawn back from the sensual dream-haze to sensual reality as she sees Viktor's face above her, eyes intent and burning under lowered lashes, mouth open as though to a mute cry of tender pain. He thrusts hard in a steady, driving rhythm, shoving her into the cushions and slate, and beyond him is the Milky Way spanning the sky in shimmering bands of stars, and around is their garden, their house, their patio with chairs and a table and potted plants, all the familiar everyday things they own together.

" _Taka priyaten, tesen_ ," he grinds out, lost for romantic phrases in the grip of his pleasure and the beckoning ecstasy, aiming for one thing now and if she weren't so suddenly in thrall by the concrete beauty of it all she would hitch a ride there with him, but she is sated, replete and loved, and just wants to savour his passion and release for its own beauty.

"Love you, want to see you lose it, Viktor, so beautiful when you come," she croons and tightens her muscles around him. He groans and keeps going, thrusts fast and furious for a little while and then he gives a low shout and jerks inside her in slower, shuddering plunges, his face open and tense with the wild bliss of it.

He lies down on his side almost at once and curls himself around her for warmth as he regains breath, kissing her hair while she snuggles comfortably back against him. The sound of the surf down the hill lulls them now, like lying at the whispering mouth of a conch, and they drift for a while, but when the air begins to cool the sweat on their bodies, he raises himself on an elbow to look down at her.

"Think you vill manage to sleep now, Mrs. Krum?"

"Mm-hmm... leave me be, Mr. Krum ... nearly asleep already," she murmurs, the corners of her mouth quirking up.

"Come here, lazy girl." He manhandles her gently onto her feet and then lifts her up in his arms, carrying her inside, leaving the cushions and clothes and the scrap of silk to lie where they are.

"Vill get you in bed before midnight, yet," he says with a glance at the grandfather clock in the corner, and she clasps her arms around his neck as he takes the stairs to the bedroom with her. His cheek rests against her hair. Her eyes are closed, blind again, on the brink of dream visions. Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, the moors and the lake, McGonagall's warm, quiet pride in her, all as comforting in their way as this place she has made with Viktor. 

"You know," she mutters as he places her on the bed, "I think I'm going to ace that exam. I've no idea what I was fretting about."

"Nor me, either." He laughs low and lies down next to her, pulling up the covers, and she turns and throws a sleep-heavy arm over his waist in tender possession, nestling into the home of his warmth as they let the dark wrap them in dreams.

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> FYI: Viktor's words in the heat of the moment mean "So good, tight." Come on, even Viktor can't say sweet, imaginative things _all_ the time. :) Also, the Bulgarian in that phrase is tinkered together by me based on a translation machine and a very rudimentary acquaintance with Slavic languages, so if the grammar is off I sincerely apologize to any Bulgarians reading this.


End file.
